


October Surprise

by onethingconstant



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Espionage, Gen, Happy Ending, Hydra, Kissing, Political Campaigns, References to Physical and Sexual Abuse, Scary Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers Is Not Dead, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onethingconstant/pseuds/onethingconstant
Summary: “Evening,” she says.
  There’s a huff. “I don’t remember calling room service,” a man drawls in a Queens accent.   Natasha smiles like a cat. “I came to say congratulations,” she says.  “Thanks, darling. For what?”  She tilts her head. “You had a hell of a run. I’m impressed.”  “Whaddya mean, had?”  She shrugs a shoulder. “Not much left now, is there?”A month before the U.S. presidential election, Natasha Romanoff has a word with one of the candidates. Bucky Barnes is just along for the limo ride. Well, the limo ride and the chance to save democracy from Hydra.  (Author is working out her electoral anxieties through fanfic. Come join!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> _About the content label: There is a very brief, non-explicit reference to Bucky being physically, and (implied) sexually, abused by unnamed Hydra higher-ups. Nothing is described in any detail—he remembers only a snatch of dialogue, and that he was anxious, and who was present. That’s as bad as it gets. Take appropriate precautions._
> 
> _Also, this story takes place in a hypothetical MCU where Steve is not running around in the Captain America suit for some reason, but he’s alive and well and reasonably happy and Bucky’s got the suit and shield. Sort of like the Bucky-Cap period in the comics, except Steve isn’t dead. Just roll with it._
> 
>  
> 
> Author’s Notes:
> 
> I am not an especially political person. I have voted in every election (save one) since I turned 18, and I diligently do my research before every turn in the booth, but I don’t consider myself political. I don’t volunteer with campaigns or at the polls. I don’t join movements. I don’t do bumper stickers, or yard signs, or anything like that. I have voted for half a dozen different parties; I laughingly describe myself as “a Marxist of the Groucho school—I wouldn’t join any political party that would have me as a member”. 
> 
> I don’t care about politics. But I care about how my country gets run. I believe, as Spider Robinson once said, that the United States of America has the finest set of ideals that any country ever failed to live up to, and I want to see those ideals respected and adhered to as much as is humanly possible. 
> 
> I’ve had a hell of a month, and I don’t know what I’m going to say in therapy today, and I know very sensible people who are making serious plans to flee the country like it’s Germany in 1933, and last week a friend of mine asked me to be the PR face of a guerrilla organization designed to protect LGBT people if a certain candidate wins in November. 
> 
> This is not a political statement. This is me reaching for comfort, for a way to wave my hand and say, “And then everything was okay again,” and have it be so. 
> 
> I write Captain America fanfiction. You know what happens next.

He waits in the dark of the wardrobe, breathing shallowly. Whenever he gets too light and quick with the oxygen, a warm hand touches him somewhere—gentle pressure on the small of his back, a rub between his shoulder blades, a squeeze of his right bicep, the one that _can_ be squeezed. It’s reassurance, is what it is, a silent reminder that he’s not alone in here. Not alone in this.

He hates that he needs the comfort, but he does need it. He’s not afraid, exactly; they burned fear out of him a long time ago. He’s—the closest English word is probably anxious. This is a delicate matter, and he’s not a delicate man.

But it has to be done. And it’s not like the target is delicate either. 

There are shuffling footsteps in the hall, a murmur of voices outside the door to the room. His breath catches again, and a hand squeezes his. 

_It’s okay_ , he wants to say. _I’m all right. I’m not scared._ But he knows she never thought he was, and anyway it’s too late now. 

One wardrobe door opens, then closes. The room door opens. The light snaps on.

He can just see her, through the gap between the double wardrobe doors. She’s perched on the edge of the desk, long and lean, her red hair glowing in the soft light. 

“Evening,” she says.

There’s a huff. “I don’t remember calling room service,” a man drawls in a Queens accent. 

Natasha smiles like a cat. “I came to say congratulations,” she says.

“Thanks, darling. For what?”

She tilts her head. “You had a hell of a run. I’m impressed.”

“Whaddya mean, had?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Not much left now, is there?”

“Don’t you watch the news, sweetheart? I’m up in every poll. You’re talking to the guy who’ll be signing your paychecks, come January. You might wanna be nice.”

Her smile widens. “I’m strictly freelance, these days.”

“Yeah, I heard. Running around with your pet wannabe. Hell of a comedown for a girl who used to sleep with Tony Stark.”

Inside the wardrobe, his left hand tightens until the leather straps on the shield creak, and then he immediately stills. This is no time to lose his temper. Natasha has warned him about this. She can take care of herself. And she’s about to get all the revenge she could desire. 

Natasha’s eyes flick down, then up. “Why?” she purrs. “Do you want to know which one’s better?”

“Oh, I already know. Believe me.”

Her smile is rich with secrets. “I guess you’ll have plenty of time to practice after you drop out of the race tomorrow.”

“And why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

Her voice stays warm, but her eyes freeze over in an instant. “Because,” she says, “if you don’t, then a certain lady reporter will get an email full of names, dates, and routing numbers. And a couple of newspapers will receive photographs of you at a few meetings that definitely weren’t on your public calendar. Buzzfeed will get the video from your son’s sixth birthday party, with a few of the guests helpfully labeled. And the drip, drip, drip will go on until every major media outlet on the planet has its very own story about your deep and longstanding connections to Hydra.”

The deeper voice snorts derisively. “You think voters pay attention to the news, honey?”

“Not yours,” she replies. “The media circus is just to get the Justice Department and the FEC involved. I’ve got something else for the voters.” 

“Yeah?” the voice sneers. “What’s that?”

Natasha crosses her legs. 

He pushes the door open, right on cue.

The target is smaller than he looks on TV. His suit fits like a gunnysack, which is maybe the worst insult. Billions of dollars and the guy can’t afford a tailor with the stones to tell him he looks like a clown wearing his daddy’s clothes. 

The target looks like he’s smelled something lousy. “Coming out of the closet, huh? You idiots don’t think that’s a little on the nose?” He leers at Natasha. “Listen, sugar, you gotta do better than a traitor in a flag suit. I buy guys like this wholesale.”

Bucky Barnes straightens his spine. “I don’t think so,” he says, with a calmness he doesn’t feel. “Not after somebody’s uglied you up a little.”

The color drains from the target’s face. Turns out pale orange is beige. 

Bucky knows he doesn’t have to say anything else. He and Nat have chosen his words with exquisite care, practiced them for hours. He’s relived that moment—the gold-plated paper knife stroking his cheek, the young man’s mocking voice ( _If I uglied him up, nobody’d want him anymore. Hell of a thing, marking up the Winter Soldier. Bet he’d still say thank you_ )—and he remembers the faces in the background. _All_ the faces. 

Bucky gives the target a grim little smile. _I remember it all, you bastard,_ he thinks. _And I remember you were there._

With a visible effort, the target tears his eyes off Bucky. He’s just bright enough to spot Natasha as the bigger threat. 

“So what?” he blusters. “Nobody’s gonna believe this little pussy. I can put up a hundred witnesses that’ll prove—”

Natasha shows her teeth.

The target stops. 

“Captain America,” she says, “isn’t going to be the one making the charges. Oh, he’s agreed to testify, but he’s got better things to do than PR. That’s a job for the experts. Like Steve Rogers. Who’ll be discussing your Hydra connections, your torture kink, and a hell of a lot more when he announces he’s running for president. How many votes will you get running against a man who punched out Hitler over two hundred times?”

The target looks like he’s about to faint.

“This meeting is a courtesy,” Natasha says, and now her smile is pure venom. “If you have any questions, you know where to reach us.”

She slithers off the desk and strolls to the door of the opulent hotel room. Bucky falls in behind her, the shield heavy on his arm, his gun warm and comforting on his hip. He resists the urge to giggle. 

He’s known men like the target all his life, and he knows the last thing they’ll tolerate is the appearance of weakness. Once he kicked their asses once or twice, they’d cross the street to avoid picking a fight with Steve and risking that Bucky Barnes would finish it. 

The target knows he can’t beat Steve. In an election between two profoundly unpopular candidates, Steve Rogers will win in a landslide— _if_ he runs. The target will have to drop out before Steve can declare, to avoid losing to the most beloved hero the nation has ever produced. Steve doesn’t even have to actually run. The target will make his own exit to save face, and he won’t realize what’s happened until it’s far too late. There’s a reason Natasha is a world-class spy. 

“Do me a favor,” Bucky rumbles as the two of them stride out through the gold-encrusted lobby. “Never take up politics full-time.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow over her shoulder at him, but she waits until they’ve climbed into Tony’s limo and closed the door before she grins like a teenager, grabs the front of his uniform, and pulls him in for a long, deep kiss. Bucky moans into her mouth, both from the pleasure and from the sudden loosening of the knot in his stomach.

Natasha leans back, her eyes gleaming wickedly. “Politics,” she scoffs. “Pfft. I have better things to do.”

*

The news breaks the next morning—a wife’s sudden cancer diagnosis, a doting husband, an unavoidable exit from the presidential race. At least one pundit faints on camera. Steve texts them three words, clearly ironic: _America thanks you._

Natasha Romanoff and James Barnes don’t hear a word of it until later. They spend the next day in bed.

They have better things to do.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This scene is loosely based on one at the end of _The Death of Captain America_ , although only Natasha and the target were present for that one. 
> 
> 2\. FEC = Federal Elections Commission, the governing body in charge of regulating U.S. federal elections. 
> 
> 3\. My Tumblr is not working at the moment, so if you know anybody on there who might enjoy this, feel free to share like crazy. It’s intended as a public service, or at least a bit of therapy for anyone who needs it. 
> 
> 4\. I am onethingconstant on Tumblr (when it works) and Instagram. Come be my friend. I post a lot of pictures of Bucky Bear, and it is my goal in life to foil the nefarious plans of a particular fascist. Not the one you’re probably thinking of. But a fascist all the same. 
> 
> 5\. If you’re eligible to vote in the upcoming U.S. presidential election, please, please, PLEASE register and vote. I live in a very populous non-swing state, so thanks to the electoral college, I don’t have any real say in things. I will vote, but my vote won’t matter at that level. I stand to lose civil rights if this election goes south. Please vote. America thanks you.
> 
> 6\. UPDATE AFTER THE RELEASE OF THE ACCESS HOLLYWOOD TAPE: Um, I'm not saying Natasha Romanoff was behind that, but ... well, SOMEBODY really should've backed down while he still could. Agent Romanoff, we owe you one.


End file.
